by Don DeNevi
Peter paused, then added,
“I am a plain solider who loves and is ready to die for his country. I can neither speak for or cry out against executions. I have no power to stand before the court and demand reprieve or immediate death. When Schneidermann was lined up and tied to the stake, he turned and looked at me. How will I ever forget that look? He may have wanted me to somehow intercede, to stop the nonsense of a well-planned firing squad doing its work, to allow him to live. That look he gave me shouted, ‘You’re my friend, aren’t you? Stop this! Stop this before it’s too late!’”
Neither Nimitz nor MacArthur moved a muscle. Both had stopped eating their finger food, as MacArthur, especially, leaned silently forward across the table.
“I was both nauseous and demoralized. Of course, he deserved execution for the nine deaths, if not more, and the mechanical and cold-blooded method he repeated over and over. Yet, I want to believe his mental illness provoking him into murder frenzies of that nature is beyond worded explanations. I will maintain until my own dying day that no little boy or girl at the age of two, three, or four, or five has ever, ever said, ‘Oh, I can hardly way to grow up and be strong enough to kill, and kill again, then kill some more.”
Again, a pause as Peter looked down upon the food on his plate in his tray. Then, he began again,
“I just stood there. I didn’t move a muscle or nerve. I was stone-cold dead, struggling to remain composed. I could no longer look at him. I know his last thought was one of intense disappointment and pain. How do I talk about the grief, the emotional…”
Peter stopped. There was moisture in his eyes. “Of course, he had to die. I, too, wanted that. But, then, no matter how I cut it, I return to, ‘Yet…’, ‘but…’. I had worked with him every day for an hour or so. I felt I knew him, his horrible personal story as a youth, his later brilliance as a medical doctor exploring the great depths of the mind.”
“What I remember the most, to answer your inquiry, General MacArthur, was the volley of shots that made his head no more.”
After a silence during which MacArthur gazed upon Peter while the admiral and lieutenant looked down upon the tabletop, Nimitz glanced at Peter and asked,
“How do you like our new command post? The general flies in from Australia and I fly down from Hickam. We meet regularly here to discuss and plan our next objectives. This morning, however, we focused upon a variety of issues for example, we dealt with issues pending our invasion of Luzon; our second carrier raid on Tokyo, Jimmy Doolittle’s in ’42 was the first; our first bombing operations on an island we need as a fighter plane base named Iwo Jima; and our first efforts to take Mindanao and Okinawa. We believe the Pacific War will be over in less than a year, if all goes well with a new bomb we’re developing out Nevada way. The war in Europe should be over by August. None of what I just shared with you is secret or confidential, but it’s best for you to say nothing about any of it.”
As MacArthur leaned back and enjoyed a cup of recently brewed Hawaiian-roasted coffee, Admiral Nimitz told Peter of his youngest daughter, Mary, a Dominican nun teaching freshman and sophomore English courses at the Dominican College in San Rafael, a stone’s throw from the northern end of the Golden Gate Bridge in the San Francisco Bay Area. Nimitz concluded the 45-minute lunch by saying,
“What we fear the most around here is a Jap light carrier sneaking up and pinpointing on New Caledonia. By hugging the Northern Australian coast until the sub reached the southern Coral Sea, and launching from the sea a number of Zeros, Mitsubishi AGMs, B5Ns, and D3As straight to Hangar 4, roaring in at a few hundred feet or less, they could drop their bomb loads straight through our roof. Such bombs could kill us all, to say nothing of disrupting all our Pacific War’s communications, from stateside to the Philippine Islands.”
“And,” added MacArthur, “the Supreme Commander of the Southwest Pacific Area, “don’t forget a few enterprising Japanese submarines could surface, as one did off California in early 1942, and fire their deck cannons at this Command Center, if a Japanese Captain ordered his submarine to surface at night, he could hit us within a minute or two and dive, fleeing out the Noumea harbor, into the open sea. At Goleta, near Santa Barbara, the single sub surfaced and shelled oil storage facilities, not hitting any, if I recall.”
Nimitz leaned forward and commented,
“The scenarios we mention, Lieutenant, are unlikely. We have an amazing number of operating warning posts and search planes in the air at all times, except nighttime. We constantly remind all our military staffs, there is no such thing as ‘safe home waters’.
Nimitz concluded,
“All in all, life on New Caledonia is quite boring. The ocean is beautiful, the waters this far south sparkling and crystal clear, and the weather balmy, all incidental to the fact the Japanese front is more than a thousand miles away.”
MacArthur reached over the table, extended his hand, and smiled,
“Lieutenant, it’s been a pleasure. You’re on your way back home for something special. I know you’ll succeed. I’ll be following it closely because I may be needing your services in my army. Be safe! And, as I leave you now, I echo what was in a 16mm movie the admiral and our staff watched in here last night. The movie was completed about eight months ago and starred Ronald Reagan. Our country’s dearly-loved Irvin Berlin wrote the music. My favorite part was watching, and hearing singer Kate Smith sing an inspiring, spirited rendition of Berlin’s anthem to our nation, ‘God Bless America’. Every military man in our armed forces, all 12 million of them will watch it sometime this year. I won’t sing it to you, Lieutenant. But I will say a few words of that anthem song of devotion to you now:
God Bless America,
Land that I Love,
Stand Beside Her, and Guide Her,
Though the Night, with the Light from Above,
From the Mountains
To the Prairies
To the Oceans
White with Foam
God Bless America
My home sweet home
God Bless America.”
Peter lowered his head in a moment of silence.
Then Nimitz said quietly, “I echo what the general just said, Lieutenant. We deeply, deeply believe those sacred words, and we say them to you, and all our boys, from heartfelt reverence.”
Peter sat frozen; hand clasped on the table next to his uneaten luau finger-food selections. As he looked upon both men gazing upon him, he felt the moment was truly the peak experience of his lifetime, that is until his marriage someday, the births of each of his children.
It was so easy to understand why each leader was adored, nay, idolized.
First, General Douglas MacArthur, probably undoubtedly, the most important military man in the history of the Philippians. He would forever be associated with the heroic effort to defend Bataan. Then, upon his escape to Australia, he organized and coordinated the buildup of our forces until he successfully returned to Manila in October of 1944. That he loved the Filipino people and their culture is beyond question, Peter thought. That he had the reputation of being a natural, indeed, eternal, optimist impressed President Roosevelt so much that he gave the General of the U.S. Army carte blanche on just about anything he wanted or intended to do. The one personal characteristic of the General everyone talked about was how after meeting him for the first time, you felt the two of you had been lifelong friends. Everyone had respect for him, steadily increasing as time and experiences were shared. Not one of his staff revealed a flaw in him. Arguments with him always ended in humor and greater admiration. He never wrote up a subordinate staff member or forced his decision upon him. The man was essentially gentle and kind, resolute, inexorable, persevering, and, above all, brave and courageous.
Shifting his intention to Chester William Nimitz, Peter recalled what everyone knew: Selected by the President and Secretary of the Navy, Frank Knox, as Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet, Nimitz was disinclined to accept. He hoped for a seagoing com
mand. To show his good faith to the Pearl Harbor staff who served the previous Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet, Admiral Hubbard E. Kimmel, Nimitz showed up at Pearl Harbor and his first Cincpac staff meeting with a lone flag secretary. He encouraged everyone to remain in his official position. That single act of benevolence, good faith, and trust for a demoralized group of Navy administrators endeared him to every official throughout the American armed forces. And, within months, Nimitz’s humility made him the most accessible, considerate, and loved of all fleet commanders. His favorite characterization of a person was whether he or she was a person “of cheerful yesterdays and confident tomorrows”, a designation a classmate attributed to him in his Naval Academy class yearbook.
Like General MacArthur, Admiral Nimitz had an immense capacity for administrative work. He supposedly possessed an impeccable judgment of men and making prompt military decisions. Sitting across from him at this moment, the equally gentle, kind, good-hearted man had a staff of 636 officers, almost 5,000 ships, and over 16,000 planes under his command.
Simply put, Chester Nimitz was calm in demeanor and courteous in speech. He had thinning white hair framing beautiful blue eyes and a red complexion, especially on his cheeks. Like MacArthur, he restored confidence in the defeated Pacific Fleet. For Peter and others, the characteristic they admired the most was that Nimitz had the courage to take necessary risks in order to defeat Japan.
After a slight nudge from the Naval Lieutenant who had positioned himself at an adjacent table for his luau lunch, Peter stood up, as did Nimitz and MacArthur. Again, the three shook each other’s hands with genuine warmth. Noticing a hint of moisture in Peter’s eyes, Nimitz, as was his wont in such situations, smiled as he stepped closer, then gently placed his arm on Peter and quietly stroked his back. Acknowledging the gesture as one of the kindest, and most innate of all human expressions, Peter, for an instant, quavered. MacArthur, with pipe now in hand, chuckled.
With everyone in the luau’s assemblage rivetted to the unfolding scene, as they had been throughout the trio’s luau together, not one had ever actually observed the Fleet Admiral’s natural physical expressiveness. Rarely in the annals of American military history had such an emotional scene been observed in the open by so many subordinate officers.
Peter, embarrassed, fought back the tear or two sure to come. He smiled graciously, thanked Nimitz, nodded to MacArthur who was still grinning, his unlit pipe now in his mouth, turned away and followed the Naval Lieutenant out of the luau area to the side door exit and out of Hangar #4.
Outside, without a cloud in the light blue sky of the early spring day, the sunlight was blinding. With its motor idling, and an officer sitting in the driver’s seat, a jeep was waiting. After the two lieutenants climbed in, the Jeep was on its way to the Noumea harbor where Peter’s aircraft transportation was waiting for departure stateside.
It was past midday and a strong breeze was sweeping dust and debris across the base and its runways, taxiways, aprons, barracks, assorted hangars, and maintenance buildings.
The driver drove fast but carefully along the narrow roads, some of asphalt, most of crushed coral or pounded dirt. To Peter, all scenery was little more than a haze. Since he was so contemplative about the luau lunch with the admiral and general, it was difficult to focus on Noumea’s ancient ruins in the city’s outer areas, their approaches to the docks and wharves, and the hundreds of commercial businesses, churches, public buildings, houses of prostitution, and medical facilities that stretched for miles to the waters of the Pacific.
Past recently-constructed levees, docks, wharves, ferry and other docking slips, the Jeep, now with a much-lowered speed, wove its way through the dense pedestrian traffic; the only noteworthy event in an otherwise uneventful 45-minute trip. Peter’s only concern was that in all likelihood he would never again see or meet Private First-Class Lawrence “Larry” Angelo, who, by now, was touching down in his C-47 on Hickam Field in Hawaii.
The Jeep pulled up in a difficult-to-locate restricted area filled with warehouse activity. A small sign in the front window of a long prefabricated, half-cylinder metal-skinned shelter of the Quonset hut read: U.S. Navy Harbor Communications.
“Now, Lieutenant, I’ve provided you with my base phone number should there be any issue pertaining to your air transportation to San Francisco and its Treasure Island Naval facility where your Catalina will berth,” said Peter’s escort, the unnamed Naval Lieutenant. “If there is a problem, just tell whomever that you are a personal friend of General MacArthur and Admiral Nimitz. Say that loud and clear, get it? Also, explain your personal bag was retried from under your seat in the C-47 and placed aboard the PB-Y5. Good luck Lieutenant. I especially enjoyed the camaraderie between you and the top brass. Never witnessed anything like it. Neither of those two highest ranks even cast a look at me.”
When he finished, Peter climbed out of the jeep, nodded to the driver, and shook the hand of the Naval Lieutenant. Smiling, he said,
“I don’t even know your name. But please know this. I am grateful for all your guidance on this day. I hope we meet again, Naval Lieutenant-of-no-name.”
With that, Peter exited, turned and hurried to the entrance of the Quonset. At the front door, he waved as the jeep pulled away.
Within moments of entering and identifying himself to the sergeant behind the counter, Peter was informed that this air passage had been approved by none other than Secretary of the Navy, Frank Knox, in Washington. Apparently, Lieutenant Toscanini’s mission was of such a critical nature it had to be labelled “Confidential/Secret” with final instructions issued only by proper Naval authorities upon delivery of the “officer involved” to the Commandant of the Treasure Island Naval Station.
“What kind of a plane am I assigned to? And, who and how many others will I be flying with?” Peter queried nonchalantly.
“A new amphibious flying boat, patrol-bomber known officially as a ‘Consolidated PBY-5A’. Unofficially, our soldiers and sailors know them as ‘Catalina Flying Boats’. They all say the same thing about her: ‘She’s slow, but reliable’. Yup, you’ll even had a bed on it, being all alone in it. Best darn two-motored scout-bomber ever made.”
“Yeah, I heard all that, too. ‘Tough, but big and clumsy.’”
The one that the Navy assigned for you is the beauty of the lot of 20 that we have at our disposal in the Pacific waters. She’s on schedule for your prompt departure at 1500. You have about 45 minutes to look around. Make certain you’re returned to this office by 1445 for escort to the aircraft.”
“You’ll see to my bag?”
“Already on board from the C-47.”
“Just a short walk, then I’ll be here at 1445.”
Within minutes, Peter was strolling along the Noumea waterfront, amazed by the buzz of activity. On the street level, throngs of uniformed men and women were commingling with New Caledonian natives and Australian civilian crews. Positioned in strategically places were heavily-armed pillboxes constructed to repel Japanese Marine landing parties. Rifle and machine-gun bearing sentries roamed at will.
Soon, the Lieutenant found himself standing on a busy wharf gazing upon ships and tenders loading and unloading war materials and equipment. Beyond, he noticed, were the base drydocks, oil and aviation fuel tanks, and a dozen or so cranes of varying heights.
In the harbor of the small bay before him, not a single fishing vessel could be found. Instead, a number of 1,010-foot-long piers, known as “ten-tens”, extended from the Navy Yard where the Communications Quonset hut was located. Clustered about them were numerous floatplanes and flying boats being repaired and serviced while berthed. Small boats, crafts, and tugs lingered about. Across the intervening channel to his right, a worn U.S. Navy destroyer was half out of the water, its propeller pointing skyward. Accentuating the vista were the hundreds of repairmen scattered about the quays, moles, and docking facilities amid the ever-present smell of welding smoke. Impressing Peter the most was the absence o
f debris, not a single oily or greasy paper or cloth. Not a hint of filth or garbage along the shore banks and work yards.
At that moment, the desk sergeant of the Navy’s communication hut trotted up waving a clipboard.
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant Toscanini! There are papers for you to sign!”
As he handed the hinged board holding the official documents over for signature, he asked,
“Ready for the big hop to San Francisco? Nonstop, maybe 18 hours. I’m not sure.”
“Swell. Let’s go. But that spectacle out there sure tingles a military man’s blood, you have to admit.”
“Me, myself? I never tire of it. The most fun place to work in the whole Pacific. But I have been assigned to escort you down there where that swarm of sailors are all over it.”
Glancing where the sergeant was pointing, Peter saw some 15 or 20 men in dungarees and fatigues pouring over the $90,000 land and water airplane’s power plant and armament.
“Wow!” exclaimed Peter, “Isn’t she a beauty. Always wanted to fly in one. When did she come in? She wasn’t there when I walked out this way 45 minutes ago.”
“No. It was only a few minutes after you walked by that she motored into that moor to pick you up.”
“What a plane, at least from the outside. All aluminum. Look at her shine in the sun!”
“Well, except for the fabric-covered control surfaces and wing panels of the main spar.”
“I especially like the 50-calibre machine guns in the middle and the machine guns in turrets.”
“Yes, sir. But no Jap planes the direction you’re going.”
“She have a name? I can see she does, but I can’t make it out.”
“Yes, sir, she sure does. In fact, she’s famous. She was featured on a poster in the states to recruit men into joining the Air Corps to fly ‘similar planes’. The poster we don’t see out here. I hear its well-received back home because she is silver. But all the boys who didn’t make it after they were enticed by it now say when they came to fly the Catalina machines and all they get to do is clean latrines. They feel the poster lied.”